


Magic Out Of Our Hands

by ReapersAngel



Series: Supernatural/Magic Sherlock AUs [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Magic is Known and Accepted, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - The Supernatural are Known and Accepted, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Case Fic, Dating, Deductions, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Did I miss any - Freeform, Disclaimer: Credits to Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC and Sherlock and Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat, Elf!Sally Donovan, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Kiss, Flashbacks, For your ifrits, Fox Spirit!Mycroft Holmes, Further Disclaimer: Credits to Cassandra Clare, Human!John, Ifrit!Sherlock, It's For a Case, John Watson Has PTSD, John Watson Makes Deductions, Johnlock - Freeform, Kissing, M/M, Magicless!Sherlock, Never decided whether he was a wolf shifter or a werewolf, Not Rated because I feel lazy, Not marked major character death but obviously there's death, POV John Watson, Pixie!Mike Stamford, Queer Themes, Self-Indulgent, Sherlock Holmes Makes Deductions, Sherlock's horns are sensitive, Warlock!Sherlock, Who even knows what Mrs. Hudson is, Wolf!Lestrade, human!molly, thank you cassandra clare, ticklish John Watson, witch!Anthea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:40:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26252044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReapersAngel/pseuds/ReapersAngel
Summary: She had crossed her arms. “You know why he’s here? He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. Weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.”He had looked at her, shocked.“Why would he do that?” He had asked. He didn’t believe it then, and he didn’t still believe it now.“Because he’s a psychopath,” Sally had said, “And psychopaths always get bored.”He has stared at her. She had leaned in closer.“Rumor has it that he uses his magic to solve everything,” She had whispered, “So simple, anyone could do it. I think, one day, when he lays down his kills, he’ll have used his magic to put it there. And he’ll keep going and going and going.” She had leaned back away then. “He’s a psychopath and a warlock, Doctor Watson. That’s never a good mix.”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Supernatural/Magic Sherlock AUs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1939507
Kudos: 92





	Magic Out Of Our Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Not proofread and not britpicked. I used Cassandra Clare's version of warlocks and ifrits. Thank you, Cassandra Clare, for giving us the world of Shadowhunters and Malec and like everything. I used this script (http://downloads.bbc.co.uk/writersroom/scripts/Sherlock-A-Study-in-Pink-final-shooting-script.pdf) while also generally going by ear, and this (https://cms-assets.tutsplus.com/uploads/users/877/posts/31106/image/8-drawing-horns-twisted-adding-darker-tone.jpg) is sorta like what Sherlock's horns look like. In this 'verse, having two warlock marks means you're particularly powerful.

When John had accepted Mike’s offer to see this new potential flatmate, he certainly didn’t have high expectations. After all, who would choose to room with an invalided army doctor with PTSD? 

They stopped off Barts - St. Bartholomew’s Hospital - and took the lift down to the floor labeled _Morgue/Lab_. Maybe this potential flatmate was a ME or a scientist?

As it turned out, occupationally it was neither. 

“Bit different from in my day,” He comments as they enter. His cane taps the floor.

“You’ve no idea,” Mike says back.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone?” An unusually deep voice says. It doesn’t seem so much as a request as a demand. “No signal on mine.”

“What’s wrong with the landline?” Mike says.

“Prefer to text,” The stranger says.

Mike reaches into the pocket of his jacket as John studies the stranger in front of him. They - he’s never been one to assume, growing up and living with Harry has beaten a respect and (if not quite full) understanding of the LGBTQ community into him - continue typing into the computer, not even looking up. Clothed in a fancy posh suit, curly night-coloured hair, focus completely on the computer in front of them, charcoal spiral horns rising from their head. Warlock, then.

“Sorry,” Mike says, “Other coat.”

Before John can stop himself, the words are leaving his mouth. “Here, use mine.”

The stranger swivels around in their chair as John takes out his phone and offers it. “Oh,” They say as they take it, “Thank you.” At this distance, closer than they were, John sees that they have another warlock mark - cat’s eyes. Must be quite powerful, then.

From the corner of his eye John can see the brief moment of surprise flicker across Mike’s face before it’s gone. Apparently this stranger doesn’t say thank you a lot - or perhaps doesn’t mean it a lot. “This is an old friend of mine - John Watson.”

The stranger barely looks over at him, already tapping away at the keyboard on his phone. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“I’m sorry?” John says.

“Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?” The stranger says.

“Afghanistan,” John says, turning to look at the stranger, “I’m sorry, how did you-”

“Ah, Molly!” The stranger interrupts, handing John’s phone back. “Coffee, thank you. What happened to the lipstick?”

A new stranger wearing a white lab coat sets the coffee down, cheeks colouring. “It… wasn’t working for me.”

_Ah_ , John thinks, _One-sided love._

“Really? I thought it was a big improvement,” The stranger says offhandedly, “Mouth’s too... small now.”

_Bit rude_ , John adds to his mental list of the stranger. The one in the lab coat stares as the stranger walks to the end of the table before letting out a small “Okay.” and leaving.

The stranger rolls their shoulders. “How do you feel about the violin.”

John gets the feeling that this stranger says every question as a statement. He looks over at Mike, who smiles over the orange-capped test tube in his hand. “I’m sorry, what?” He says.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking,” They say, “And sometimes I don’t talk for days on end - would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” They talk fast, and draw out ‘end’.

John turns to look at Mike, confused but sort of understanding - if they guessed he was in the army, why not this? “Oh, you- you told him about me?”

“Not a word,” Mike says.

“Then who said anything about flatmates?” He says, turning back to the stranger.

“I did,” The stranger says, pulling on their jacket and tying their scarf, “I said to Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now he turns up after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t a difficult leap.”

“How did you know about Afghanistan?” John says.

The stranger ignores that, though. “I’ve got my eye on a nice little place in central London - together we could afford it. We’ll meet there, tomorrow evening, seven o’ clock.” They head for the door. “Sorry, got to dash - I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

“Is that it?” John says.

The stranger stops in front of the door, turning the halt into the few necessary steps back to stop in front of him. “Is that what?”

“We’ve just met and we’re going to go and look at a flat?” He says, a touch of incredulity in his tone.

“Problem?” The stranger says.

“We don’t know a thing about each other! I don’t even know your _name_. I don’t even know where we’re meeting!” He says.

The stranger tilts their head down a bit, words falling easily off their tongue. “I know you’re an army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan.” They continue. “I know you’ve got a brother with a bit of money who’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him - possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic - quite correctly, I’m afraid. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”

On the inside, John’s a little bit amazed. The stranger turns and walks out the door, then turns back.

“The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.” The stranger, Sherlock Holmes, winks with a cheeky click of the tongue before finally disappearing. John stares for a moment.

“Yeah, he’s always like that,” Mike says.

  
  


They moved into 221B Baker Street together. John tilts his head back, closing his eyes, and briefly plays back when they were in the flat - when Sherlock said he’d moved in and he called Sherlock’s things rubbish. A twinge of guilt twists in his stomach - he wouldn’t do that now. But Sherlock had leapt to tidy up. Obviously he was eager to impress.

Then Sherlock, straightening, like a bloodhound with the trail. The trail of the fourth “suicide”. Meeting Lestrade - however momentarily - for the first time. Sherlock jumping up like an excited toddler at the new information.

And Sherlock, drawing him into his orbit. Into his danger, his trouble, his world. His life.

Them, in the taxi, Sherlock explaining how he deduced it all. How he called him amazing, extraordinary, quite extraordinary. How Sherlock looked pleased but surprised, and told him the usual reaction was a ‘piss off’.

Then, at the crime scene, getting out of the taxi. Him telling Sherlock Harry was short for Harriet. He smiles.

Seeing the woman in pink lying face-down on the floor, fascinated as Sherlock knelt down beside her. Sherlock shooting off his deductions rapid-fire, him inserting the occasional word of amazement. Every time, both Sherlock and Lestrade looked at him. He apologized and said he wouldn’t do it again, then Sherlock said that no, it was fine. From the look on Lestrade’s face, Sherlock didn’t say that often. It had sparked a tiny bit of warmth in him.

Then, afterwards, his conversation with Sally Donovan, with her pointed elven ears. The speed slows down from times-two to normal. He remembers it like it was yesterday…

“Bit of advice, then,” Sally had said, “Stay away from that guy.”

“Why?” He had asked.

She had crossed her arms. “You know why he’s here? He’s not paid or anything. He _likes_ it. He gets off on it. Weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.”

He had looked at her, shocked.

“Why would he do that?” He had asked. He didn’t believe it then, and he didn’t still believe it now.

“Because he’s a psychopath,” Sally had said, “And psychopaths always get bored.”

He has stared at her. She had leaned in closer.

“Rumor has it that he uses his magic to solve everything,” She had whispered, “So simple, anyone could do it. I think, one day, when he lays down his kills, he’ll have used his magic to put it there. And he’ll keep going and going and going.” She had leaned back away then. “He’s a psychopath and a warlock, Doctor Watson. That’s never a good mix.”

Lestrade had called her then. Her parting words had been “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes”.

  
  


His mind cuts from then to that fateful moment - him, in the wrong building, Sherlock and the taxi driver, in the other. Sherlock, raising the pill.

And, without thinking, his hand coming up and squeezing the trigger. They didn’t shake - not one tremor. Not in the face of Sherlock dying. He had shot someone else to save someone he hadn’t even known for forty-eight hours.

He had dashed outside, stumbled out and to the perimeter of the police tape. He had watched them cart the body away, bring Sherlock out and give him a shock blanket. Even from the distance, he could hear Sherlock complaining about the shock blanket. Then, him deducing the shooter: “The bullet they just dug out of the wall was from a handgun. A kill shot from over that distance from that kind of weapon - that’s a crack shot you’re looking for. But not just a marksman, a fighter - his hand couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatised to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though. So, strong moral principles. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service and- ...nerves of steel...”

Then Sherlock had broken off, staring at John. John didn’t turn away, their eyes locked onto each other. Sherlock’s cat’s eyes were wide, his slitted pupils blown. His mind had gone ahead and stated that physiological responses like fear and surprise - _and attraction_ , a small voice had said, _don’t forget attraction_ \- made the pupils dilate in mydriasis.

Sherlock had then brushed off Lestrade’s questions, claiming shock, and proceeded to John. Lestrade had had a small smile on his face as he turned away, and Sherlock had balled up the shock blanket and thrown it through the open driver’s side window of a police car.

“Ah,” He had said, clearing his throat, “Um, Sergeant Donovan’s been explaining everything. The two pills - dreadful business, dreadful.”

Sherlock, his head not moving, his eyes locked on John, the smallest smile on his face, a note of approval at the end, had said, “Good shot.”

“Yes, yes must have been,” He had replied, “Through that window-”

“Well you’d know,” Sherlock had said.

He had licked his lips - or, rather, swiped his tongue twice, once back, once forth, over the inside tissue of his mouth under his bottom lip - and Sherlock had said, “We’ll need to get the powder burns out of your finger. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case. Are you all right?”

He had remembered thinking, back in the lab of St. Barts, that Sherlock made every question sound like a statement. At that moment, with Sherlock asking if he was all right, he knew it wasn’t true.

“ ‘Course I’m all right,” He had said.

“You just killed a man,” Sherlock had commented.

“Yeah. True,” He had replied, “But he wasn’t a very nice man.”

“No,” Sherlock had said, “No, he wasn’t really, was he?”

“And frankly,” John had added, “A bloody awful cabbie.”

Sherlock had laughed a little. “Yeah, that’s true. A very bad cabbie. You should’ve seen the route we took here.”

Then they were both giggling uncontrollably like schoolboys, trying to stifle them unsuccessfully.

“Stop it,” John had giggled, “We can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene, stop it.” The end of his sentence had been playful, though. He hadn’t really wanted to stop.

“You’re the one who shot him,” Sherlock had laughed, “I, I mean-”

“Keep your voice down,” John had said back playfully. They passed Sally Donovan, who stared at them weirdly. “Sorry. It’s just um, nerves, I think.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock added as they passed her.

He had looked at Sherlock, a bit more serious. “You were going to take the damn pill, weren’t you?”

Sherlock’s response had been a tad too fast. “ ‘Course I wasn’t.” There was a pause. “Biding my time. You’d turn up.”

“No, you didn’t,” He had said, “That’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? Risking your life to prove you’re clever.”

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock had said back.

“Because you’re an idiot,” He had responded simply. Sherlock had looked at him for a moment, possibly offended - it had been always hard to tell, but it wasn’t as hard now - before smiling. 

“Dinner?” He had said.

“Starving,” John had said.

“There’s a good Chinese, end of Baker Street - stays open ‘til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle-”

That was where John had interrupted, having seen the black limo, Mycroft and his ethereal, ghostly fox, and Anthea. His mind hits the mental rewind button. He imagines the mental screen fritzing and ‘snowing’, until it stops at his first time at Angelo’s, just after he finished his pasta and a bit after he told Angelo he wasn’t gay and Sherlock told him he got Angelo off a murder charge.

“People don’t have archenemies,” He had said.

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock had said.

“In real life. There are no archenemies in real life,” He repeated, “It doesn’t happen.”

“Doesn’t it? Sounds a bit dull,” Sherlock had said, a tad bored.

“So who was that guy?” John had said.

“What do real people have, then?” Sherlock had asked, “In their real lives.”

“Friends,” John had answered, “People they know. People they like, people they don’t like-” Here he knew his eyes had flicked to the candle in the glass, and he had known Sherlock had caught the movement. “-Girlfriends. Boyfriends.”

“Yes, well as I was staying - dull!” Sherlock had exclaimed.

“So. You don’t have a girlfriend then?” He had said.

“A girlfriend? No, not really my area,” Sherlock had said. He had sounded bored, indifferent, but also a little bit distasteful.

“Oh,” John had said, “Oh, right…” There was a pause. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

Sherlock had looked him - curious, confused, like he didn’t understand what John was asking but wanted to dissect him and find out. He had backpedaled. “Which is fine, by the way.”

“I know it’s fine,” Sherlock had said.

“So you’ve got a boyfriend then?” He had said.

“No.”

“Right. Okay,” He had said, “Unattached. Like me. Fine, good.”

Sherlock had looked at him weirdly, the curiosity and confusion fading into emotions John couldn’t have identified. “...John, you should know, I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest I’m really not looking for any kind of-”

“No, no, I wasn't asking you out!” John had exclaimed. It had sounded a bit loud but didn’t go past their little window table. “No! I’m just saying, it’s all fine!”

“Good, thank you,” Sherlock had said, his voice steady but odd.

He had changed the subject. “But seriously, an archenemy though - what’s that supposed to _mean_.”

“Nothing in real life, apparently,” Sherlock had replied.

He fast-forwarded several months ahead. He knew which memory he was looking for. It switched back to normal speed - he and Sherlock had been relaxing in a no-case lull, one of the rare ones. Well, he had been relaxing; Sherlock had been practically bouncing off the walls with nervousness. He couldn’t keep still, and finally had sat down in his chair, taking a deep breath.

“John, I need to tell you something,” He had said.

John had folded his newspaper back up and put it aside. “I’m listening, Sherlock.”

“Have you ever seen me use magic, John?” Sherlock had said. His hands had been clasped tightly in his thinking position, and he had sounded vulnerable, scarily open, nervous, tense, and a little bit terrified - like he was baring his soul. In a way, John knew now, he was.

“No,” He had said. There were signs when one used magic - a glowing warlock’s mark or glowing eyes or hands, a soft but steady and noticeable humming - even levitating was a sign. John had known then - and still knew now - with absolute certainty that ever since he had known him, _Sherlock had never used magic_. 

“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors,” Sherlock had said, a tad bit bitterly.

He had. His mind had flashed back to his first conversation with Sally Donovan. _“Rumor has it he uses his magic to solve everything… I think, one day, when he lays down his kills, he’ll have used his magic to put it there… Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.”_

“I know what they say,” Sherlock had continued, “And they aren’t true.”

John had stayed quiet, understanding that Sherlock had to take his time with this.

“I don’t-” Sherlock had broken off with a frustrated little growl. He had thrown one hand up and waved it around. “I don’t have magic.”

“Okay,” John had said, nodding slowly.

Sherlock stared at him incredulously. “Is that not how people react?” He had asked. He had been hit with a feeling of déjà vu - on their way to their first crime scene together, when Sherlock had told him the usual reaction to his deductions was ‘piss off’.

“No,” Sherlock had said. He had climbed out of his chair and nearly into John’s: his hands had been planted on either side of John’s thighs, and their shins had touched. Sherlock had been staring straight into his eyes, as if searching for something. For his part, John had stared back, inwardly marveling Sherlock’s eyes - they were blue and green and sort of brown with just a touch of silver. _Partial heterochromia_ , his doctor’s brain had piped up.

They had stayed like that, for hours or minutes John hadn't known, but Sherlock had turned suddenly and flopped back into his own chair.

“Well,” He had said.

“You’re the first I’ve told,” Sherlock had said offhandedly.

“What?!” He had exclaimed.

“Mycroft knows, obviously,” Sherlock had continued, “He controls my files and he and his fox could’ve sniffed it out even if he didn’t have them. But I haven’t told anyone.”

“Until me,” John had said.

“Until you,” Sherlock had agreed. They were silent until Sherlock picked up the conversation again.

“Everyone assumes I have magic,” He had said, “Which is rubbish, because _anyone_ could see that I never use it. Even if I did have it, why would I use it for deductions? It would be a waste of my mind, and besides, it’s much more fun this way.” There had been a tinge of bitterness and insecurity in his voice, and John had felt his heart pull a bit at the image of Sherlock, magicless, honing to his mind to compensate.

“I’m glad I’m your first,” He had said.

Sherlock had scoffed. “Don’t be stupid, John,” He had said, “Of course you’re my first.”

His mind fast-forwarded again, but this time by only a few weeks. A case, right - they had been running through the shadowed alleys, turning left and right and right again and then left again and up the fire escape and down the drainpipe two roofs over and across a balcony, the suspect only steps behind them. John could remember how his heart pounded, his gun against the small of his back, how loud their pounding footsteps had seemed in the quiet night, bouncing off the brick alley walls, the thrill of the chase and adrenaline and danger and love for the case thrumming and rushing through his veins. There had been a mad grin on his face, and a matching one of Sherlock’s.

They ran with their hands linked, as usual - while probably more practical to run separately, they didn’t, because holding hands while running was second nature for them and also because they didn’t really talk about the matter simply because it didn’t need to be talked about - and with Sherlock’s map in his head, they ran for the main street. John remembered the electricity humming in their linked hands.

They had nearly barreled into the stream of people on the main street, and had melted into the crowd even with Sherlock’s height, Sherlock running a hand through his windswept hair and John straightening his jacket. They had slipped into the role of the meandering couple, their still-linked hands swaying gently between them.

“He’s looking around for us now,” Sherlock had said, pleasant smile still fixed on his face.

“Of course, sweetheart,” John had replied, his own smile in place.

“He’s seen us, John,” Sherlock had hissed through his teeth. His hand had tightened around John’s.

“We’re a couple, Sherlock,” John had hissed back through his smile, “Kiss me, you’ll bend down and even if he sees us then it was probably too dark for him to get a good look while we were running.”

Sherlock had bent down then, and John had caught him murmuring “John, you brilliant, brilliant thing” before those soft, soft lips had descended on his. He had let himself go pliant as Sherlock’s hands had moved to his waist, and his own had slid up to cup the detective’s cheeks. John had barely remembered the people slipping around them like fish around a rock, barely remembered where they were, what they were doing there, barely remembered anything but the feel of Sherlock’s hands delicately playing with the hem of his jumper and the feel of his lips on his.

Then someone had shouted “Oi! Snog somewhere else!” and they had jerked apart, startled. John had felt the heat in his face and Sherlock coughed into his hand and almost ducked into his scarf, the pink on his face more telling than his actions of embarrassment.

Then John had remembered, and done a quick scan of the area. “He’s gone, Sherlock,” He had said, relieved that the ploy had worked, but more focused on the pieces clicking together in his brain.

Sherlock had straightened, back into consulting detective mode. “Come, John,” He had said, “Lestrade will want to hear what we’ve found, though I doubt those incompetent idiots at the Yard will get its significance.”

“Right,” John had said. Sherlock hadn’t strided forward with those long legs of his like he usually did when he was on the trail - instead, he had waited for John to transition from standing still to ready to walk, cat’s eyes checking him out like he was deducing him, or checking for injuries. The small act had made a warm feeling envelop John’s heart neatly, and as they set off together their hands brushed, and the last piece clicked into place as John thought, _Oh._

_I’m in love with Sherlock Holmes._

The memories faded back out…

  
  


...into the present.

“John? _John_? Jooooooooooohn?”

John opens his eyes and looks down at Sherlock, whose head is in his lap. His fingers on one hand are around John’s wrist, and both of his own sets of fingers are in Sherlock’s dark, curly hair. “Do your thing again,” He demands, pushing John’s fingers farther into his hair.

“Okay, Sherlock,” He says, smiling and a bit fond. Sherlock removes his hand from John’s wrist and does the human approximation of a purr, scooting closer. He looks like that Tetras block, the one where it’s vertical and two blocks on the right and the bottom right one is next to the top left of the two left blocks. His spiraling horns are on the other side of John’s thighs - Sherlock normally can’t lay down with them, and this is one of the few positions where they don’t get in the way. He’s mindful of them as he combs and plays with Sherlock’s hair.

“You were thinking,” Sherlock prompts.

“I was,” John agrees.

“About…” Sherlock scrunches up his face. “...us?”

“You’re always on my mind,” He says mildly. Sherlock preens in his lap at that.

“You were thinking of the times important to you,” He says, “Of when we first met, when you had your first conversation with Sally Donovan-” He scrunches up his face again. “-though I don’t get why that’s of any importance, when you killed the taxi driver and afterwards, and the time I told you that I am magicless.”

“Mmm,” John hums, “That’s about right.”

Sherlock huffs. “What do you mean, _about_. I am right.”

“Yes, you are,” John agrees. He carefully runs his thumb along the bottom of one of Sherlock’s horns, making the detective in his lap melt into a squirming, blushing mess.

“ _Joooooooohn_!” Sherlock complains. Though, it’s more of a mewl. “I told you those are _sensitive_!”

“I was listening,” John says. He keeps rubbing along Sherlock’s horns, thoroughly enjoying watching the show in his lap. Sherlock is sideways-glaring at him, although it really doesn’t have much of an effect when he’s blushing bright red and writhing on his thighs.

“John, stooooooooop it,” Sherlock protests, weakly batting at John’s hands. He doesn’t succeed.

“But don’t you look gorgeous like this, love,” He teases. Sherlock mewls another protest and retaliates.

Quick as lightning he flips them over. They tumble down onto the floor, just barely missing banging themselves on the coffee table. Sherlock’s straddled him, sitting on his thighs with his knees touching John’s hips. John’s hands are still tangled in his hair, and he goes in for the kill.

“Sherlock!” John yelps as Sherlock reduces him to a wriggling, laughing, giggling pile of Captain John Watson. Sherlock’s long fingers poke and prod his weak spots, a wild grin on his face that John’s sure is mirrored on his own. He scrabbles at Sherlock’s hands, trying to get the detective to _stop tickling him_. He can’t express the thought in so many words but he’s getting there.

“Feel the wrath of my revenge, John!” Sherlock crows victoriously, plunging his fingers into the side of his jumper.

John laughs uncontrollably and thrashes a bit. He feels a bit breathless and knows his jumper’s riding up a bit. His eyes are squeezed shut, but when the tickle attack stops he opens them.

He finds Sherlock, staring at him in wonder, his mouth open a bit. John slides his hands from Sherlock’s hair to cup his cheeks, and his hands come up to wrap his slender fingers around John’s wrists. John feels himself staring in awe as Sherlock bends forward at the waist, bringing his hands with him. He presses a kiss to his lips - firm but soft, chaste and barely there. Sherlock rises a little bit, an inch between their noses, before leaning back down. John opens his mouth to him, and it’s like their first time all over again, slow and sweet as they take their time to taste and map and feel. Sherlock slides one glorious hand underneath his jumper, and John barely feels the slow building burn in his lungs. He’s breathless for a whole different reason now. There’s a moan and a whimper, and he doesn’t know which one of them made either sound. Eventually, after what feels like eternity but only feels like a moment, they part, neither really breathing even though the need for air is consuming. Sherlock’s eyes are warm, and when he inhales, John does too. When he exhales, he can feel the air on his lips.

“Come on, John,” Sherlock whispers. He pulls them up, and nuzzles his nose into his hair. “I can think of a better place to do this.”

“Lead the way,” John whispers back, and Sherlock leads him up the stairs, hand in hand, to John’s bedroom. They fall back onto the blankets, kissing but no clothes coming off. Hands find their way under shirts, legs find their ways to get tangled together. When they fall asleep, they’re so close there isn’t any air between them. John’s face is tucked into Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock’s nose is nestled in John’s hair. John’s hands stay pressed against Sherlock’s bare skin, just above his jutting hip bones and the tips of his fingers under his shirt, and Sherlock’s arms are wrapped around John’s waist, pulling his doctor close. The other’s heartbeat is familiar, close, and there’s nowhere else in the world they’d rather be.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually meant to just end it with Sherlock's head in John's lap but the world said no and my fingers agreed.


End file.
